Then began such an exhibition as Loch Spellanderie had never seen. Cleg trod water. He dived. He swam on his back, on his side, on his breast. His arms described dignified alternate circles—half in air and half in water. He pretended to be drowning and let himself, after a terror-striking outcry, sink slowly down into deep water, from which presently he arose laughing.
And all the time his heart was hot and prideful within him.
"I'll learn her," he said over and over to himself, "I'll learn her to tak' up wi' a country Jock."
And then he would execute another foolhardy prank, dismally rejoicing the while in Vara's manifest terror.
"Cleg, come oot! Ye'll be drooned!" Vara cried, wringing her hands in agony. Simple and innocent herself, she could not understand why her kind good Cleg should act so. She had no conception of the evil spirit of pride and vainglory, which upon occasion rent and tormented that small pagan bosom.
"I'll show her!" remained the refrain of all Cleg's meditations for many a day.
Finally, when this had gone on for a quarter of an hour, Cleg trod water long enough to kiss his hand, and cry "Guidnicht!" to Mistress McWalter and her husband, who meanwhile stood dumb and astonished on the bank.
Then he turned and swam steadily away across the loch. He did not know in the least how he would get his clothes dried, nor yet where he would have to sleep. But his many adventures that day, and in especial the way he had "taken the shine oot o' that loonie wi' the curls," warmed and comforted him more than a brand new suit of dry clothes. So long as he could see them he looked over his shoulder occasionally. And when he noted the four dark figures still standing on the bank, Cleg chuckled to himself and his proud heart rejoiced within him.
"I telled ye I wad show her," he said to himself, "and I hae shown her!"